Through Cloud and Sunshine Read online

  © 2005 Sharon Downing Jarvis.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Deseret Book Company, P.O. Box 30178, Salt Lake City Utah 30178. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Deseret Book. Deseret Book is a registered trademark of Deseret Book Company.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The Fairhaven Chronicles

  Book 1: A Fresh Start in Fairhaven

  Book 2: Mercies and Miracles

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jarvis, Sharon Downing, 1940– Through cloud and sunshine / Sharon Downing Jarvis.

  p. cm. — (The Fairhaven chronicles ; bk. 3)

  ISBN 1-59038-433-4 (pbk.)

  1. Mormons—Fiction. 2. Bishops—Fiction. 3. Alabama—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3560.A64T48 2005

  813'.54—dc22 2005000482

  Printed in the United States of America 54459 Malloy Lithographing Incorporated, Ann Arbor, MI

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Wesley and Josephine Jarvis, the kindest and best of in-laws

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter One

  * * *

  “ . . . on a cold winter’s night that was so deep”

  Christmas was essentially over; now at nine forty-five on Christmas night. With their two younger children tucked in bed and their eldest in her room reading one of her new books, Bishop James Shepherd and his wife, Trish, could finally relax. They sat in the living room with the lights dimmed except for those on the tree—small white stars that beamed their steady radiance from within the mysterious dark branches of a fragrant pine. The children preferred the other tree, the one in the family room, with its racing, multi-colored lights and ornaments that represented peppermints and gingerbread men and drums and sleds and rocking horses and snowmen. The more formal living room tree held Trish’s cherished crystal ornaments and tiny velvet-backed books in shades of rose and green. There were miniature editions of Dickens, the Gospels, Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, and “The Night before Christmas,” as well as others, most of which the bishop didn’t recognize. Trish had been collecting the ornaments for this tree from before they were married.

  She was curled in a corner of the sofa now, gazing at the tree while a Tabernacle Choir Christmas collection softly played. The bishop was sprawled in a nearby chair, his slippered feet stretched out before him, watching his wife in a rare moment of repose—rare, at least, this season of the year. Christmas Eve had been good, he reflected. They’d had Muzzie and her children over, and Buddy Osborne, and Melody and Andrea Padgett. Trish had persuaded the children to act out the Christmas story—both the New Testament version and the Book of Mormon counterpart, in which the faithful were nearly put to death while waiting for the sign of Christ’s birth to be given. Jamie had been especially enthusiastic acting the part of an unbelieving priest anxious to slay the believers, while Buddy Osborne had been a patient, if embarrassed, Joseph, kneeling beside Tiffani as Mary at the side of the sleeping Baby Jesus (Mallory’s doll—Mallory had campaigned to have the cat, Samantha, wrapped up as the holy child, but her mother had firmly quashed that idea). The other children took the parts of shepherds and wise men and as believing Nephites in the Book of Mormon version, after which a supper of soups and varied breads, crackers and cheeses, followed by hot fudge and peppermint ice cream sundaes, had been happily consumed.

  Christmas morning had been fun, too—always is, the bishop mused—watching his children open their gifts and exclaim over them, and then presenting Trish with his gift for her—a gold and pearl charm bracelet with a custom-engraved charm that read “Number-one Trooper and Helpmeet.” He also gave her a James Christensen jigsaw puzzle entitled “The Responsible Woman,” showing that good lady burdened every which way with the trappings of her varied responsibilities. Trish had laughed and kissed him and then handed him her gifts—a cell phone and a new bathrobe and pajama set. He had mixed feelings about the cell phone—never had wanted one, in fact—but he tried to be grateful, and she persuaded him that in his position, with so many people clamoring for his attention at all hours, he needed one. Now, he mused, if I can only learn to use the dang thing properly, it might be as much of a help as an annoyance.

  The cat, Samantha, seemed to partake of their post-Christmas relaxation as she lolled beneath the tree, stretching in the incredibly elastic way she had, then rolling onto her back and batting half-heartedly at a dangling crystal icicle.

  Trish wagged a finger at her. “Don’t even think about it,” she warned. Samantha began to lick her side as though she had no other thought in mind. “Jim,” Trish said, turning her attention to him, “have I told you lately how happy I am?”

  He grinned. “Tell me again.”

  “I’m very, very, very, very happy.”

  “I’m just exactly that glad.”

  “I honestly can’t think of a single thing missing in my life. I’m perfectly content.”

  He went to sit beside her, and she nestled into his arms. He nuzzled her shiny dark hair, which was one of his favorite things about her and which always seemed to smell like sunlight and flowers. “You make me happy, too, Trish,” he told her. “You’re my anchor and my rudder and the wind in my sails.”

  She pulled back and gave him a playfully narrow-eyed look. “I’m a ship?” she inquired.

  “You’re a sailboat, babe—the fastest, sleekest, most gorgeous kind.”

  “Oh. Well, then.”

  They were quiet for a few moments. Then she said, “The only thing I ever wonder about is whether there might be another child for us. Sometimes I think there is.”

  He kissed her hair. “We’re not as young as we used to be.”

  “That’s true.” She sighed. “And my track record in producing children is not the best. Still—I wonder. It’s the only thing in my whole life that I would change if I could. To have a couple more children.”

  “I know. But we’ve got three great ones, and they seem to keep you pretty busy.”

  “They do, and they’re great kids. I adore each of them. I don’t know—maybe it’s because there were four of us in my family, and I’m programmed in that direction. It’s no big deal. Just a thought.”

  “We aren’t doing anything to prevent it, sweetheart, so if it happens, it happens. I just want you to be safe and well.”

  “I know. Thanks, Jim, for being you. I love you so much.”

  He held her to him, savoring the moment. “Don’t know how to be anybody else. And I love you, Trish. With all my heart.”

  “This has been a wonderful Christmas, hasn’t it?”

  “The best ever.”

  “Do you really hate your phone?”

  “Oh, hey—I hardly know it, yet. Give us a chance to get acquainted before I pass
judgment. It’s a very thoughtful gift, I can tell you that.”

  “Just not what you wanted.”

  “I didn’t want anything in particular. I’m always happy with whatever you give me.”

  “I love my bracelet. It’s gorgeous, and it makes me feel—um—elegant, and cherished.”

  “Would you rather have had a new food processor?”

  “Are you kidding me? I can process food just fine.”

  “You sure can. Dinner was great.”

  “Thanks. It was lovely, having your mother here. I’m glad she felt well enough to come, and I’m grateful that the good weather held out long enough so that Paula and Travis could bring her. In fact, it held out just long enough, sounds like. Listen to that wind kicking up!”

  The wind was, indeed, howling outside, whipping in gusts around the eaves and keening at the windows.

  “Bet we’ll get snow before morning,” he commented.

  “Snow’s fine—I just hope it won’t be an ice-storm. I hate those. They’re gorgeous, but treacherous.”

  “Like some women, huh?”

  “Oh—well, I, of course, wouldn’t know about that.” She giggled softly.

  He hugged her closer. “No, you wouldn’t. You’re a virtuous woman, and I’m grateful.”

  “Like snow? As in ‘pure as the driven’?”

  “That pure, but more like sunlight. I think you must be spring or summer because you light up my days and warm my nights.”

  “Now you’re waxing poetic.”

  He kissed her hair again. “Only you could make me do that, babe.”

  The jangling of the phone broke the mood, and they looked at each other regretfully.

  The bishop went to the extension on his desk in the corner of the dining room.

  “Bishop?” The voice was a little quavering; and for a moment he couldn’t place it.

  “Yes? This is . . . ?”

  “It’s Lula Rexford, Bishop. I’m so sorry to bother y’all on Christmas, but I’m real worried about T-Rex.”

  “What’s wrong, Lula? Is he sick?”

  “He ain’t here, is the problem, and he said he’d be back three hours ago! He took his motorcycle out for a spin—got him some new do-dads for it, for Christmas, you know, and wanted to go ride, maybe show it off a little to a couple of friends. I’ve called all of them, and only one has seen him—and T-Rex left there about six-thirty.”

  “Well, he’s a young man with a lot of friends—he might be anywhere. Maybe he got involved talking to somebody, or something. You know how it goes with guys . . .”

  “No, Bishop, I got this creepy feelin’, like somethin’s wrong with him. I even called the sheriff, but you know you don’t get no satisfaction from the law about missin’ young’uns. They say they’ll keep an eye out, but they don’t even take you serious till the kid’s been gone at least twenty-four hours.”

  “What does Tom say?”

  “He’s worried, too. He went out and rode around a little, but no luck. He don’t say much, just sits there and frowns. See, Thomas was gonna come home and watch a movie with us tonight. He was lookin’ forward to it. Said he’d be back by seven at the latest. He didn’t want to be out ridin’ late, ’cause it gits too dang cold. And it is—it’s purely howlin’ out there. I don’t know what to do, Bishop! I want to take off myself and go lookin’ for him, but I don’t have a clue where . . .”

  “What would you like us to do, Lula?”

  She was near tears. “I sure don’t know. I thought maybe—if there’s any menfolks available, they might take a ride—fan out on the different highways, look for any signs of somebody goin’ off the road, you know, before the snow covers it up.”

  “I’ll be right over. Just sit tight, and say a prayer.”

  He reported the news to Trish, and they knelt by the living room sofa and offered a brief but fervent prayer themselves for T-Rex’s safety. Then he bundled into a warm jacket, took gloves and a hat with earflaps, and headed out to his truck. So far, no snow had fallen, but the wind came in cold and humid blasts with a sweet smell to it that he associated with the white stuff.

  He thought about T-Rex, the Fairhaven Mariners’ football hero and object of many a young girl’s crush. The boy loved his motorcycle, he knew—loved the feel of its speed and power beneath him and the boost he felt it gave to his image among his peers. The bishop understood, to a point—he had felt somewhat the same about his first truck—the old pickup he had lovingly worked on, souped up, and raced on Saturday mornings during his own teenage days. But, from a grown-up point of view, he worried about T-Rex and his bike. The boy had even ridden it during football season, which was forbidden by the coach. The lure, apparently, was irresistible. He tried to think of all the kids he knew who might have qualified for a visit by T-Rex, to show off his new gadgets, whatever they were. Surely he would be with one of them!

  And yet—he couldn’t dismiss Lula’s fear. He knew that mothers often knew things. A similar fear was nibbling at the edges of his consciousness as well.

  He parked in front of the Rexfords’ and hurried up onto the porch. Lula had the door open before he knocked.

  “Any word?” he asked, and she shook her head. Tom, her husband, sat on the edge of an easy chair, his head down and hands clasped loosely before him.

  “Okay—who-all have you called?” the bishop asked.

  “Ever’body I could think of, Bishop, from his teammates to the kids at church. Artie Joe Williams was the one said he’d been by to see him, but didn’t stay long. And he didn’t say where he was headed next. Ever’body else either isn’t home, or hatn’t seen him.”

  “Let’s get us some help lined up, then,” he replied. “Could I use your ward list?”

  Tom got it for him and hovered in the background while the bishop punched in numbers on their kitchen phone. “Don’t like to bother folks,” Tom muttered. “Like to look after my own, you know.”

  The bishop nodded at him in understanding. He knew very well how independent Tom Rexford was. “But time’s passing, Tom—and Lula’s right—we need to fan out and see if we can spot him before . . .” He didn’t want to say, “Before it’s too late,” but Tom got the message and subsided to his chair again.

  Within ten minutes, men began to arrive at the Rexford home, and several others who lived further out had agreed to search the roads near their homes. The bishop got a map from his glove box and spread it on the kitchen table, and elders and high priests chose routes to follow, in pairs where possible, so that one could drive and the other watch for skid marks or other signs of trouble.

  “Brethren, I brought a few bottles of consecrated oil, just in case, if any of y’all would like to take some along,” offered Brother Woodrow Likens, the newly-called high priests group leader.

  Several pocketed the small bottles. The bishop always kept a tiny vial of oil attached to his key chain. He didn’t go anywhere without it. Priesthood blessings, he had learned, were often required or requested at the most unexpected times. Robert Patrenko, his first counselor, offered a prayer, and the men dispersed.

  Just as the bishop climbed back into his truck, with his counselor Sam Wright riding shotgun, Rosetta McIntyre, second counselor in the Relief Society presidency, arrived to stay with Lula and help man the phone. The bishop was grateful for Rosetta’s calm and steadying influence—and grateful that she was in town, which Ida Lou Reams, the Relief Society president, was not, she and Barker having gone to spend Christmas with their son in Mobile. Rosetta’s children were home from college during the holidays and obviously old enough to be left alone, whereas first counselor Frankie Talbot’s children were young, and her husband, Gene, was involved in helping search. It was a source of some chagrin to the bishop when Brother Wright suggested that they divide up so that each vehicle had at least one cell phone along, so all could check in and report to home base. He had to admit that though he now owned such a phone, it wasn’t ready to use. His wife was wiser than he sometimes g
ave her credit for, he thought, vowing to get his new phone charged and figured out as soon as possible.

  He and Sam headed out along the highway leading toward Anniston, going as slowly as they dared, sometimes pulling off and allowing traffic to pass. They drove about seventeen miles and decided that T-Rex wouldn’t have been likely to head out that far from town on that major a road, and turned back.

  “I sure hope that boy’s holed up somewheres, playin’ video games with a buddy and jest forgot to call his folks,” Sam said, the strain in his voice belying his confidence that this was the case.

  “Buddy!” the bishop said suddenly. “I wonder if Lula called Buddy Osborne? T-Rex knows Buddy hero-worships him. It’s a long shot, but he just might’ve stopped by to see him.”

  “Where’s Buddy, with his dad or mom?” Sam asked.

  “He’s with his dad, so he’s in town. He was over at our place, last night.”

  Sam punched a number on his phone. “Rosetta? Sam Wright here. Any word? No? Okay, listen. Ask Lula if she happened to check with Buddy Osborne, to see if Thomas went to see him.” He waited, faithfully scanning the sides of the road as they crawled along. “She didn’t? Okay. Let me know.” He gave her his number, and they waited. In less than two minutes, the phone buzzed, and Sam answered. “He did? At seven-fifteen? Great! Thanks.”

  He flipped the phone closed and put it in his pocket. “Good thinkin’, Bishop. Thomas did stop to see Buddy, and his daddy says T-Rex give Buddy a ride back out to his mama’s place. They left about seven-fifteen to head out there.”

  “Oh, man. I hope he’s still there, with Buddy! Listen, there’s a ward directory in the glove box. Find Twyla Osborne’s number—hers and Gerald’s are both listed—and call there.”

  The bishop hardly dared breathe while Sam placed the call. Apparently no one was answering, and Sam looked worriedly at him. Finally he closed his phone.